On The Doorstep
by Mr. 125
Summary: The Covenant juggernaut moves closer and meeting it now would hope to slow the unstoppable foe. Follow the story of a sniper, fighting a desperate and bloody battle on Earth's doorstep: Beletzkov.
1. Introduction

**Author's Introduction**

Snipers— this is an idea I'm playing with right now. It's all about sniping duels in the Haloverse. Recently, I've read War of the Rats, and have been playing a lot of Call of Duty 3. While I don't feel qualified to write about WW2 itself, I guess I'll integrate some parts into Halo. You can almost say this is a non-funny parody of War of the Rats.

* * *

The Unggoy's life was a short one. The bottom of the Covenant order was lucky to survive one full battle, under the harsh, watchful gaze of their Sangheili commanders, who would sooner order an infantry charge to slow down a human tank than treat the grunts of the Covenant like they mattered.

And landing on one of their planets, the _hives_ of the enemy, shortened all their lives down to mere hours.

What are we to do, thought Niknik, we are much too "lowly and unintelligent" to know what's going on. We have to obey our commanders' every wish.

"My turn to watch," a soldier of his own kind piped up behind him. The small alien waddled over to where Niknik sat, hunched over a plasma rifle. Niknik passed him the weapon, and got to his feet. He snorted, as his full height did not even clear the edge of the foxhole. He couldn't tell if an enemy was coming—it just helped the officers sleep better, knowing there was someone outside.

It was dawn already, and the sunlight was already flushing out the cool, morning air. Although both grunts did not breathe it, they could feel it on their rough, scaly skin. They stood on a section of the human city the Covenant were already calling their own.

"Not sleeping on watch, I hope," a thick snarl boomed from behind the two, causing them to jump off the ground. A sangheili in fierce, crimson uniform stepped forward; his hunched over back and proud demeanor both intimidated Niknik and inspired courage.

"No, Excellency," Niknik squeaked, buckling under the sangheili's questioning tone. "I was just getting off."

The warrior nodded with a soft growl, and waited for the grunt to step around his massive form. When Niknik waited patiently, the elite chuckled with satisfaction.

"Good. You know your place," the officer told him, then strode forward to survey the scene. "Anything to report? I don't want to be out here longer than I am needed…"

Niknik knew better than to walk away from his superior officer or even interrupt him while speaking.

"… it sickens me, to know that humans have left their marks on our ruins. They are a gift! Stand fast, grunt. We _will_ remove this taint when we are finished."

The elite looked at the two and relaxed slightly. He muttered, "Even the air is filthy. I feel like I've been breathing in methane all night."

The grunt pretended to show interest as the officer began to laugh in his usual warble. As the elite tilted his armoured head back, a bullet sped through the side of his head, splattering the small alien with the sangheili's purple blood.

"Son of a bitch," laughed the spotter, as he withdrew from his field glasses. "Lucky shot, right through the brainpan! I guess I owe you those meal tokens."

The sniper scanned the area for more targets. Once satisfied, he lowered the rifle and peered out towards the enemy lines with his own eyes to be sure.

"Gladly, Lukas." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his spotter's lips purse. He dug into his pocket and flicked over a plastic chip, which they used to ration supplies, to the sniper.

"And they all said you're a nice guy."

"You think I'd pass up an extra helping of Turner's mystery soup? —Time of kill: 6:18, write down— I am _volunteering_ to save you from a dire case of food poisoning."

Corporal "Woody" Woodrow was an artist with the rifle. He could drop an elite running at full speed from over nine hundred meters away. Some have said he's near competition for even Spartans. Woodrow would often laugh and accuse them of drinking too much, but when the fighting picked up, Nathan would be on the front, picking off Covies with no effort at all. When people asked what his weakness was, he'd simply reply, "Patience". While it was true he could snipe as well as a Spartan, he was only a human being. He'd wait only so long to fire off the weapon, but it wasn't like him to sit in a crap-filled shell hole for days just for a single shot. Where he failed in perseverance, he made up for in accuracy.

Private Timothy Lukas was Woodrow's teammate while they fought for the icy city of Beletzkov just a little off of Earth. Unlike Nathan, Lukas was larger and stronger and much more persistent. While he couldn't work miracles with the S2, he was decent enough, and had even sharper eyes than Woodrow.

"Funny. '6:18, I saw it with my own eyes—Tim'. Time, cowboy," Lukas said and tapped his watch. A minute after every shot, a sniper had to keep moving. Enemies would be able to pinpoint the position by seeing the muzzle flash. And the S2 AM had one easy flaw. The high powered rifle left visible contrails. Even in the worst conditions, Woodrow considered it to be a top priority to eliminate any other snipers, even before officers. He wouldn't give the Covie snipers much credit, but he'd prevent a few casualties.

Woodrow slung the S2 on his back. "Shall we?"

"Yeah, but the next one's mine, target whore," Lukas muttered, as the two took off, sprinting back toward friendly territory.

* * *

"Rise." The single word echoed off the purple walls and ceiling of the chamber majestically. The minor prophet, dressed in royal, flowing robes motioned for the sangheili to speak.

"Twenty-nine of the original thirty-one field masters I have sent have been killed during the fighting in the human city. Number thirty was killed this morning, Excellency."

"A pity. Does this impede our progress?"

The warrior hesitated, choosing his words carefully in front of the prophet. "The humans are putting up a fight. But I doubt they know anything of why we haven't destroyed the planet. But as it is, they fear of losing another of their territory."

The prophet stared at the elite for a moment, then repeated his question. "Does this impede our progress?"

"Excellency, we are having _difficulties_ on capturing the human city."

"Then why are you bothering me?"

The sangheili bristled with embarrassment, but regained his composure. "Reports have detailed on a human sniper. He is the culprit of twenty-four of my commanders, and at least a hundred others—Unggoy, Kig-Yar, and Jiralhanae."

The prophet rose with excitement. "The Demon?"

The warrior alien shook his head. "Just a human."

"Then why so much trouble? He is, after all, only human."

"I wish to propose a hunt-and-kill mission."

The prophet waved his hand dismissively. "Nonsense. Our assets shall not be wasted by a single human."

The elite lowered his head, but suddenly stood straighter. "But I know of one who will not be wasted. He matters not, Excellency."

The prophet still showed little interest, but made a sound of resignation. "Who?"

* * *

Thorvamee exhaled explosively as he was tossed to the cold ground, the blue lights shone painfully in his eyes. The jiralhanae guards kicked his prone form for good measure, then grabbed his arms and began to drag him out of the detention centre.

The sangheili race was about being proud warriors. The imprisoned elite had been accused of being a coward by not charging into the jaws of death. Instead of wielding the magnificent energy sword, he preferred the beam rifle—the Covenant sniper rifle. Sniping was considered lowly to his race, and was reserved for the lower ranks such as the Kig-Yar. But he did so anyway, and excelled at it.

He was unceremoniously dumped in front of the sangheili warrior who had just visited the prophet. The elite had a beam rifle tucked under his arm.

"Thorvamee," he inquired, "how would you like to regain your honor?"

* * *

A/n: There'll be more—review a little, just to show me how wonderful you lot are. Now I've got to be up, playing out the sniper duels in my head. 


	2. Enter Abbot

**Author's note**: I want to thank those of you who've read my newest piece of work. I've just been thinking of a whole bunch of ideas, and I'm glad some are being accepted.

And fat dude, you want a cameo? No hard feelings, but if I do fit you in somewhere you'll probably get killed… violently. Better change the genre to 'action/tragedy'.

Before we begin again, here's a disclaimer for my own sake. The ninjas are watching.

Disclaimer: I have no association with Microsoft, Bungie, I don't own Halo nor any of its characters. And lastly, I have no association with War of the Rats and its characters.

* * *

**Beletzkov, 2552, weeks before invasion of New Mombasa**

The building around Frank Abbot shuddered violently from the superheated plasma bombardment, caused by a small army of Covenant tanks situated deep in enemy territory. The colonel flinched visibly as the ground shook, an iron beam groaned in protest, and debris from the roof rained on his battered, makeshift desk.

The building was an abandoned factory that had definitely seen better days. But for now, it was being used as the command center and hospital. Abbot peered through the dirty and cracked window pane of his office, overlooking the factory, where a score doctors tended to the rows of injured and dying soldiers.

Abbot brushed the dirt off the letter he was scribbling out and exhaled. His breath was noticeable in the freezing temperature, and he shivered. The factory's heating system had long been broken, so it felt almost colder than the snowy streets outside. The colonel searched his jacket, looking for a pair of warm, padded gloves, but found none.

Disappointed, he reached for his mug of coffee—lukewarm now—and turned around to watch the doctors drag out numerous corpses on the level below.

"So many deaths," a voice said behind Abbot, "But, of course, there will have to be many more to win."

The colonel looked to the door, where an unfamiliar face strode towards his desk. The man had a dull black, almost grey hair and an unfriendly expression. His cold blue eyes tore into Abbot with a certain loathing, and his mouth was curled into an unhappy frown. The man's thick, long coat seemed to be pressed perfectly, with no wrinkles left, and his boots were polished to reflect the dim light bulb overhead, and the colonel's surprised face.

"General, sir!" Abbot snapped a salute, and tried his best to make his weary and numb body seem lively. The general returned the salute, but didn't tell the colonel "at ease", so Abbot stood rigid.

"I am Vasilj Basilevsky. I have arrived in to see the situation in the city for myself. We hold certain parts, and that's good. But overall," the general paused and his glare pierced into Abbot again, "I am disappointed."

The colonel wanted to protest, but somehow, being around Basilevsky silenced him.

"The aliens are bombing the shit out of our boys, and from what I hear, we've lost every major engagement from the beginning of this… Beletzkov. I am taking over this outfit, Colonel. I will bring what the men need. Strong leadership and iron discipline."

Basilevsky leaned forward until he was a few inches away from Abbot's nose, and their eyes locked. "You don't know of me, do you, Colonel?"

When Abbot shook his head, the general slammed his fist on the desk, startling the colonel.

"I am not a patient man, and I'm sure you will see this. I have ordered more men to their deaths than you will ever command in your lifetime, but I have been most successful in doing so.

"Two years ago, the only thing between me and full victory was a Covenant bunker. Instead of waiting for another unit to flank them, I wanted the battle to be done. Over with quickly! Because you know, things could turn ugly in a matter of minutes.

"And so, I ordered my boys over the hill, to take the bunker with a frontal assault. I lost over a hundred of my people in that charge, and nearly three hundred more before the battle actually ended. But we took the bunker, cut off the Covenant reinforcements, and executed any survivors.

"The point is, Colonel, we _won_. No thought to the price, we killed them all, and that's what matters… to win the war at any cost. Even if it takes a million soldiers' lives, I will do what's necessary."

Abbot stared at Basilevsky. He was motionless, and speechless. Yes, he learned that the general was not a patient man. He also learned that he was completely insane! The colonel taught himself that every life was precious, and one man can make the difference. Yet, Abbot remained silent.

"I don't mind death, Colonel. I'm not happy with the results so far, but it is a little progress. I have been even less satisfied, however," Basilevsky paused, and then looked at Abbot in the eye, "with the management."

The general's gaze drifted to the window. "You know, in older civilizations, great men would throw themselves upon their swords when faced with failure and defeat."

Now Basilevsky's face seemed to be made of ice. "Although, it is not uncommon for great men to take their lives…even today," he spoke in a low voice. He picked up the M6C Abbot had stripped down and cleaned before the general arrived, then set it down before the colonel.

Abbot's eyes grew wide. "W-w-what are you suggesting, General? That I—"

"Do your duty," Basilevsky replied bluntly.

"—that I shoot myself?" the colonel finished with a worried look.

The general chuckled and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Colonel, of course not," he said. "We can be civilized about this."

But as Abbot breathed a slight sigh of relief, Basilevsky leaned forward again with a menacing frown. "But I strongly suggest that you take Beletzkov," the general leaned even closer, so their noses almost touched. Basilevsky growled, "For your own sake, Colonel."

* * *

Woodrow swept the digital reticule of his S2 over the enemy lines, searching for targets, looking for stupid Covenant who exposed themselves. Any body part was all right to the sniper, as he didn't care about giving away his position. He was in a trench in the middle of a war zone. The marines and Covenant had set up positions on either end of the road and were pouring fire and lobbing grenades at each other just hours ago. 

The fighting had died down, due to a few perfectly thrown grenades, well-placed rockets, and sniper support. The only sounds heard were the rattle and whine of the fighting all over the city, and the distant rumble of artillery. The men in the trench were bitching about the cold and preparing for the inevitable counterattack.

Nathan spotted movement and froze, hoping for the Covenant to show itself again. He squinted through the scope, willing himself to see past the swirling snowflakes. Woodrow always used the 5X option instead of the 10X. He told others that it took too long to reach over, switch the dial, refocus, and take aim. The target you may have lined up may never give you another chance. Nathan also argued that even precision shots didn't require so much magnification.

He saw it pop up once again. It was the pointy shape of a grunt, no doubt a runner. This one, Woodrow couldn't afford to merely wound. As long as it still has breath, it'll deliver its message. He tracked it as the shape bobbed up and down, jaggedly running through the broken street and attempting to dodge sniper fire.

So the Covies do learn, Nathan thought, they've informed their ranks.

But no maneuver was too great for the sniper, and Woodrow squeezed the trigger. The rifle barked with a satisfying crack! The report echoed through the winding metropolis and faded away. The small alien was down with a bullet hole in the side of his head, his blue blood seeping into the blanket of snow and bodies.

"Another?" a marine asked as Woodrow took a seat on a nearby box.

"That makes four runners already. I think I have six minutes until the next one."

The soldier snorted and took a drag on his cigarette. "Predictable little shits."

"Then that means it's my turn," Lukas announced, dropping into the trench along with four other soldiers. He set his rifle aside, and dragged forward the crate the five brought in. "Walker, go take the glasses and spot, will ya?"

Lukas pried open the steel lid and grinned at the rest of the men. "Bullets and borscht," he called out, and dug into the contents of the box. "It's like Christmas morning all over again. Okay, we have magazines for all our weapons, some frags… oh, we even got a few satchel charges..." He tossed out two boxes of ammunition and another with grenades.

He reached in and pulled out three folded blankets, and handed them around. Next, he pulled out a couple of thermoses and cans of food. "We got this stuff from the HQ hospital stores, so enjoy."

A soldier took a sip from the thermos, and peered at Lukas. "I'm impressed. Those nurses let you take this?"

Timothy swelled his chest and smiled again. "I'm very persuasive."

Woodrow laughed. "Plenty of practice back at basic, I see. I remember when you tried to hit on the drill sergeant, then told her I put you up to it. My leg still hurts from all those crunches."

"She sure was a tight-ass," Lukas muttered while attempting to heat up a can of soup with a lighter.

"So, what did you get, Lukas?" Woodrow asked, motioning to the box.

He momentarily set the can down and held up his gloved hands. "New mittens," he said, then went back to his lighter. "Oh yeah, and there's a little something for you in there, too."

Woodrow pulled out a small bottle of Brandy with his name scribbled on a note. "You really didn't have to get me something."

"I didn't… An officer just walked up and asked me to take it to you. Abbot, or something. Must be a groupie…how cute."

Woodrow raised an eyebrow, but stuffed the bottle in his rucksack anyway. His hand fell to his S2 AM. "Well, we should go for another run around the block then call it a night."

Lukas swore, and downed the soup—still cold—then hurled the cigarette lighter at the general direction of the Covenant lines, and ran to gather his things.

* * *

Ten minutes later, the two found themselves proceeding through the bombed out apartment buildings, rifles and side arms at hand. Lukas had suggested about a dozen places to set up, but Woodrow turned them down. Hiding among the rubble and completely ruined buildings may be a good strategy… for targets.

The enemies may not see you, or they might, and send everything they've got. In which case, a sniper would be completely screwed. Woodrow had told Lukas that as much as they needed a good position, they needed a better exit strategy. Nathan stuck to mostly intact buildings, as a personal paranoia. He made a point to stick to ground level, or the highest two floors up. Woodrow reasoned that if enemies decided to demolish the place, he'd at least know if anything entered the building. He had also told Lukas it wasn't because of heights at all.

"Okay, good, here." Woodrow motioned for Lukas to set up near the window. As soon as the marine knelt and powered his scope, pointed out hostiles.

"We've got two spectres full and a file of grunts. Looks like someone was planning to flank."

Nathan ran to the kitchen of the apartment and set his rifle over the sink to get a clear view of the Covenant. "Hit the gunners first, passengers next, and if the driver stops to get out, nail him too."

On the count of three, both snipers opened fire. In unison, the two alien gunners toppled backwards off the vehicles, their blood spurting from the wounds in their heads. Woodrow pulled his S2 downwards and squeezed the trigger, sending a round through the driver's armoured helmet as it tried to exit. The elite fell over to the knee-deep snow and lay motionless, while Lukas fired at one of the passengers. The Covenant moved at the last second, and the bullet tore through the alien's windpipe. It clutched its throat and fell to the ground, writhing and gasping for air while the blood leaked and pooled around its head.

Two more rounds from both marines, and all the elites had been neutralized, seven with large, gaping holes through their heads. The last one suffocating, Lukas put a round in its brain. The grunts hadn't seen where the shots came from and quickly fled, while the two chuckled and fed fresh magazines into their rifles.

"Four for me, four for you… Time of kill?" Lukas began to scribble in his notepad.

"1656 hours, Lukas, write this down, 'Lukas had to use five rounds on four enemies and is a disappointment to people every—'"

"Shut it. I still think he was startled by your second shot, is all."

Woodrow began to reply, but suddenly froze. He heard hollow clumps of footsteps walking upstairs. He mentally cursed himself for his lack of precaution, and ran to the closed door, his sidearm drawn. Lukas nodded, killed the lights, and moved to the opposite side of Nathan. They heard the doorknob turn, and Woodrow raised his M6C. The door squeaked, then quickly flew open, slamming into what must've been Lukas. Nathan whirled around the door, his pistol ready to fire.

Before his eyes could adjust to the darkness of the stairs, a hand shot out, grabbed his right arm, and smashed it into the door frame. Nathan dropped the firearm in pain, and the figure jumped out of the dark, and another hand flew to his throat. Woodrow dropped to the ground, with the thing still on top of him, knocking the wind out of his body.

Woodrow knocked the hand off his neck, placed his arm across his attacker's torso, and flipped it over, himself rolling on top. He struggled to reach his knife, tucked inside his belt. Ripping it free, he stuck his palm in its "face" area, and raised the instrument high in the air. There was a muffled scream of anger, which oddly sounded like… a girl.

As he hesitated, his felt his left hand being grabbed and bitten. Woodrow cried in pain, and dropped the knife. It clattered to the ground, and Nathan was pinned with his back to the ground once again and struck in the face.

At that moment, the lights came on, revealing a surprised young woman of mid twenties, perhaps. Her helmet had been knocked off during the exchange, and strands of her dark hair fell into Woodrow's face. She had delicate features, cute, even. Her chocolate brown eyes were wide with confusion and shame.

"All right, get off, you crazy psycho bitch," Lukas growled with an irritated tone. He held his forehead tenderly, where the door had hit.

The girl quickly rolled off and scooped up her head gear, and murmured a hasty apology. Lukas pulled Woodrow to his feet and the two stared at her, as if she were crazy. His cheekbone was beginning to swell, and his hand throbbed…and there were teeth-marks! The snipers looked wearily at each other, then turned back to the third marine.

"I don't know about you, but I don't even care for an explanation right now. I need some ice for this," Nathan complained, and bent to retrieve his sidearm and knife.

"Here, let me have a look at it." She started forward, her hands outstretched, but Lukas moved into cut her off.

"I think you've done enough for one day. You can explain back at head quarters, Private. We need to move now. The Covenant will be knocking any second."

Lukas couldn't help but notice Woodrow flinch she strode past him to move to the stairs.

* * *

**Note**: Sorry for hectic chapter ending. I want to any good parts. However, I'm sort've proud of my scene between Basilevsky and Abbot. Ah, well. Leave a comment on how I could improve, or something. 


	3. A Hero and a Villain

A/n: I've finally returned. I wanted to get in an update before the break, so I thought this would be a good story to get going on. I've edited a few minor things in the first chapter, but here we are with chapter three.

* * *

Thorvamee laughed bitterly as he got to his feet. The one holding the beam rifle stood completely still, waiting for an answer. He stared down at the frail ex-warrior without offering to help him up. He held the weapon out, butt-end first, to Thorvamee, who suddenly growled and knocked it aside. All the other weapons in the chamber were instantly trained on him. Regardless, Thorvamee stood at his full height to stare into the other sangheili's eyes. 

"You stripped me of my rank, my _identity_." the prisoner beckoned, accusing. "I have been kept locked up in a containment field for seven years, and yet you come back to me? For what? To humiliate me?"

"To save you, friend," the elite replied coolly. "They wanted to make an example of you, to instill pride and honour among our kind." He laid a hand on Thorvamee's bare shoulder, but was shrugged off.

"And you approved!"

The ranking elite said nothing for a moment, but took one step forward and delivered a backhanded slap to the prisoner's face. The sound of the blow echoed through the silent chamber. He spoke, "It is my duty to uphold the traditions of our brothers; you are no exception. I have no mercy for those I command, or those I respect." His tone lightened. "T'aom, I knew they would not go through with your sentence. It is reserved only for the deadliest of traitors and those who betray our cause… heretics. You," he clapped Thorvamee on the shoulder, "are not a heretic. So, my brother, will you join us? Will you fight once again?"

T'aom Thorvamee hesitated, contemplating his decision. He had nothing to turn to, as the sangheili were only wanted for fighting. This was his only chance at freedom. Slowly, he presented his outstretched hands. The ranking sangheili grunted approvingly and set the beam rifle in his arms. T'aom ran his fingers over the length of the barrel and snapped to attention.

"Field Master T'aom Thorvamee," the commanding sangheili said, "welcome to the Covenant."

* * *

"You're kidding me, right?" 

"That's what I said to him. If it is, the colonel must have a funny sense of humour."

"So, it's a joke?"

"No."

"Damn. Does he realize how far this'll set us back?" Lukas rubbed the growth on his jaw and swore. "Fifteen kids? I hope you're good with children, Woody."

Both marines met up in their usual hangout in the CP. They usually had a few hours to rest before they were needed around the city. The corporal had spoken with Abbot, and Lukas had come out of the infirmary, visiting the girl from yesterday's events. He had his hands wrapped around a porcelain mug of much-needed coffee and sat back to set his feet on the table while Nathan cleaned his weapons.

"Says they're the best of their class… he just wants me to show them around the city, so they don't get caught out in the snow without their mittens. They do know how to shoot, though. That'll at least make this job easier," Woodrow said. "They're being flown in tonight, so we won't do anything too overly dangerous before they arrive."

"Mm. It turns out, that girl we found was part of the reserves that stayed to help when the Covies touched down. She says she used to live an hour away from the city, so she's fighting to protect her hometown."

"She a body-builder? Might explain a little," Nathan absentmindedly ran his hand over his cheek. "Was she a part of a unit?"

"I think so. We have reports coming in from around the city and it looks like her guys are spread all over the place. Everybody's scattered everywhere. Hell, I don't even know what's happening maybe three blocks out from here. You know Sergeant Reichs? Just last week, he spent half a day with his men camping out behind the Beletzkov wall, with a score of Covies just on the other side the whole time, and they didn't even notice they were on opposite armies until one guy started up a conversation with one on the other side."

Woodrow laughed. "When was this? I don't remember seeing Reichs' guys for a while."

"You were sweeping ninth and sixteen, I believe. They needed a little long-range support to help the sergeant retreat, and you'd already left."

"Ah, I remember. We had to take the subway tunnels because there was a tank sitting in the middle of the road. By the time we got to our destination, the Covies already packed up and left. What happened to Reichs?"

"Surprisingly, he managed to take out the group behind the wall, but he found out that_he_ was actually on Covenant-held space. Me and two other guys were there to eliminate the _army_ of reinforcements that showed up, but that was clearly not going to happen. So we fired off one round each, then ran around without them seeing us, then hit them from a different position. That stalled them until our guys could get out. After linking up with the rest of our forces, Reichs went to help fight in downtown Beletzkov maybe two days ago. We haven't actually heard from anyone in there since."

"Do you think they lost the ground?" Nathan's face was grim. If a man didn't check in daily (or even hourly) in this city, he would be considered KIA.

Lukas shook his head with a small grin. "Mark Reichs is a fighter. If anyone could last in the kill zone over the expected time period, I'd put my money down on the sergeant."

Woodrow raised an eyebrow and placed his sidearm in its holster. "Then it's too bad you already owe me, Lukas. You really shouldn't gamble anymore, my friend."

Tim made a face and set the mug down. "We headed out again?"

"We're on patrol today. I figure we'll circle around the block then maybe see what's up with the good sergeant."

Lukas found his own rifle and donned his helmet. He turned to Woodrow. "Let's go?"

The sniper loaded the magazine into the receiver. "Let's go."

* * *

"Go, go. Keep moving forward, you." Sergeant Marcus Reichs patted the young marine on the arm, urging him to advance up with the rest of the platoon, picking their way around the crater-filled street and through the wreckage of buildings, cars, and piled up bodies. A company's worth of men were locked in a melee with deeply entrenched Covenant forces. Both sides were unwilling to give up ground, while bombs and bullets and plasma bolts were exchanged, and the harsh environment tore at the troops. 

After they held the line against the first few waves, it gradually became a battle of guerilla warfare and a game of chicken. The marines were now at their breaking point, and would not last out another attack or the cold. They would be the offensive force today.

The marines cautiously made their way up the street, hiding behind cover for a moment and then moving forward again. Each was weary of Covenant snipers, for they had been fighting a close ranged battle for the most part as visibility was extra poor in this area of the city. Reichs gripped his M7 tightly, concentrating on the next piece of cover he would get to. He didn't volunteer to take the route through the shops and apartment buildings lining the street, as house-clearing and close quarter combat were cumbersome and risky at this point.

He squinted to make out the shapes up ahead, when he noticed an unmistakable glow. Suddenly, it arced through the air and landed beside two leading marines. One managed to dive out of the way, but the second was consumed in the bright blue flash before anybody could yell out "grenade!"

Further up the street, at least two plasma stationary weapons opened up and their stream of bolts slashed through the streets, cutting through five men. The rest of the file of marines dove behind the debris or off to the sides of the road, each with an incoherent swear. Reichs was pinned down behind a scorched warthog that was missing three of its wheels, the windshield, and the driver's seat.

"Shit, how the hell were we supposed to know they were this close?!" Reichs shouted to another fellow NCO, "I thought recon said we had about two intersections to cross and enough room to flank!"

The marine flinched as plasma struck the warthog and flew over the hood. He clawed at his helmet. "Bastards must have moved up the street after they tried one last charge this morning! How the hell were we supposed to know? Can't see worth—"

Reichs cut him off as soon as he heard more explosions. More blue orbs were soaring through the air and killing marines caught out on the street behind debris. There was the sound of shattering glass as a man—minus a leg—flew into a once intact shop window. The ground shook beneath Reichs as more grenades were flung from unseen enemies.

"We can't stay here! We gotta get off the streets _now_!" Reichs growled. "McDonald, you see that window? Third floor of that apartment, get there with your jackhammer and wait for my order. Go!"

The private motioned to a second, his assistant, who carried the extra rockets and the two weaved across the street avoiding the plasma fire. Reichs turned back and activated his COMM. "Harkins, get up here with me!" he barked into his headset.

A moment later, another marine armed with a rocket launcher dove behind the warthog and pressed his back up against the steel plating. He rotated the tubes and set a hand on the fore grip. Harkins looked at Reichs and asked, "Sir?"

The sergeant looked over the hood and pointed to where the plasma originated from, tracing the bolts back to its start. Reichs spoke into his radio, "McDonald, you copy?"

"_Loud and clear and in position."_

"Your window should be just enough to penetrate the fog and hit its mark. Fire both rockets at where they're shooting from. After you get those rockets off, reload and displace. Tell me when you're in position number two. On my mark…"

"_Roger that. Standing by…"_

"Two, one, _mark_!"

The projectile zoomed at a downwards angle, followed by a second one. Harkin measured approximately where the rockets would end, stood up and launched his own in quick succession. The four rockets streaked through the haze and after the explosions—coupled with alien screams—the street was silent. Reichs heard the cackle of gunfire off in the very distance but the area was quiet. His headset cackled in his ear.

"_We're in position."_

"Hold your fire, marine. Get back down here." Reichs scouted ahead and found chunks of Covenant soldiers. The plasma turret emplacement had been completely destroyed. Upon seeing this, the sergeant sighed with relief and took a deep breath. "Rally on me, marines. We're not done yet."

As if on cue, a white mass of plasma arced up from around the corner of a café and smashed into the tenth floor of a hotel overhead, showering the Reichs and his people with bits of concrete, steel, and shards of glass.

* * *

A Covenant phantom glided through the clouds, revealing the sprawling human city of white snow and grey buildings. The majority of the city had been reduced to rubble and the structures still standing were all in sorry states. There was not a building left without sections blown out and not a road clear of debris. Field Master Thorvamee tightened the piece of armour on his forearm. Much to the surprise of many, he had chosen blue plated armour versus the rightful gold uniform. He knew that the humans always aimed for the highest ranking officers, and they had every right to do so. Dressed in the armour of the lowest of sangheili, he would simply add more time to his life. However, his shoulder pieces were white and contained engravings: his left, the mark of shame; and his right, the mark of a true elite warrior. 

When he had been released, the soldiers still alive that had served under him came to support him once more, while the older, more "wisened" sangheili looked down on him.

Another sangheili walked in front of Thorvamee and clicked his mandibles. "You look well, Thorvamee."

"As do you, S'monsomee." Thorvamee knew this soldier well. They both served together at the beginning of the human-Covenant war and came to respect each other greatly on the battlefield. "Where do we stand in this battle?"

"It is a grueling struggle, and I am told every human fights with the determination of a demon."

Thorvamee snapped his head to face his friend. "Are they here, now? The demons?"

"No, Field Master. These are only the weak, ordinary species. But our trained kig-yar specialists are no match for these human snipers… one in particular. I am told he rightfully deserves a title of a demon."

"What have the Field Masters told you of him?"

"They have not, for the original ones have all been killed. These reports are by low ranking warriors who watched their commanders die… Ah, we have arrived."

As they turned to exit the phantom, Thorvamee looked at the other elite. "Thorvamee," S'monsomee said, suddenly worried, "are you certain you can remove this nuisance? Our prophets grow impatient."

Thorvamee stretched and examined his beam rifle one more time. He replied, "He is only human."

* * *

A/n: I'll try to write up more of this story over the weekend, but in the meantime, tell me what you thought of the newest chapter, 'kay? 'Kay. 


	4. Everything's Not Lost

A/n: I'm actually moving past chapter three and soon five. Of all my Halo fics, I've never gotten past 3 (save for 000) so here's to me.

And we'll see about your part, fatdude. Maybe next chapter, yeah?

* * *

"Dammit, report!" Reichs grunted, picking himself up off the rubble. The other non-comm beside him lay dead from a large iron rod which had come free in the explosion and landed on him. Everyone else was shaking the glass shards and cement chippings off themselves, trying to pinpoint where the attack was coming from. Another mass of plasma arced and exploded in the middle of the disoriented marines, obliterating a handful of men. The others struggled to get off the street as a third mass was lobbed into a storefront where five were hiding.

One in front of the sergeant yelled, "Covenant armour at ten o'clock, sir! Gunners must have called for reinforcements before they got chunked!"

Reichs looked around and hit his radio. "McDonald? Harkins?" The COMM channel was devoid of the two rocket jockeys.

"Sergeant!" the marine pointed at a side street where dozens of Covenant soldiers poured out, flanking a massive wraith tank. Further down the street, Reichs could see the second tank closing in on their position, supported by more infantry.

Jackals marched forward in formation, their shields locked together, followed by a small army of grunts and their elite commanders. The remaining marines opened fire on the foot soldiers, dropping a few with lucky shots. Bullets pinged off the jackals' shields, until they turned red and overloaded from the volume of fire. The Covenant forces broke into a run, wildly firing their plasma weapons while the elites unleashed their energy swords. The sergeant's M7 shook wildly as he fought to control the kickback while it spit out the contents of its magazine. All grunts ran in a straight line and their bodies began to pile up from the sheer volume of fire pouring down the street. Reichs knew this common plan of attack… it was a desperate one, but worked wonders for their enemies, of course, at the expense of their own. They needed to thin the herd.

--

Newly promoted field master Sar'n Resolee sat in the gunner's seat of the hulking wraith tank, watching the battle from afar and conveying orders to his troops. He was promoted specifically for this moment, when he would push the humans out of the section of the metropolis they called "Downtown". He had been promised his uniform in the next shipment, when more officers were brought in. Right now, the Covenant seemed to be doing well. The two sides had been fighting for some time now, but there was finally some decisive action happening. He'd been able to get Covenant armour through the streets without getting ambushed, and the humans he faced were past worn out. Also on the positive side, snipers had not been able to cause any harm mostly due to the chaotic urban combat.

Their snipers were needed all over Beletzkov, and once they entered the Downtown, they could not leave. Whether from moral obligation, to stay and help their comrades, or perhaps they were trapped, cut off from the rest of their forces. Or because once they were stuck here, they were unable to tell which direction was safe, and the only way out was forward.

It was not so different for the Covenant. Granted, they could take more of a beating than the humans could, but any soldier left in the middle of a battlefield for a painfully long period of time will break down. And the tactics the humans had chosen to employ were wearing down his troops down, as well.

Taking the city was another story. However, today, these humans seemed determined, but he was certain they would not last. If his soldiers could not flush them out, another bombardment from his tanks would do the trick. They had nowhere left to run.

--

"Grenades! Toss 'em in the middle of the street," Reichs ordered, dropping his M7 to rip the three fragmentation grenades off his shoulder and hurl them as far as he could into the Covenant cluster. Others did the same, slowing the charge down somewhat as bloody corpses were flung in every direction. They fired into the smoke, cutting down the Covies who survived the blasts.

The wraiths had not fired during the charge, and when the smoke cleared, Reichs gaped in disbelief as the original two had linked up with a third and its mob of Covenant reinforcements. The marines hastily fed more ammunition into their weapons and prayed to survive the oncoming wave. Most were down to their last magazines and had no additional grenades.

Reichs was prepared to go out like this. He was prepared to not return at all, when he disappeared into the apocalypse that was downtown Beletzkov. He volunteered to clear this section because someone needed to do it. The sergeant held his submachine gun out in front of him, dragging the sight over the moving shapes. When they got close enough, he'd unload all sixty rounds, reload, and just keep shooting.

--

"Kill them! Flank them if you have to!" Sar'n growled, slamming his fist onto the armoured plating. "The prophets are tired of waiting, my brothers! This battle has dragged on far too long, and every human you kill brings us closer to salvation! You," he beckoned to a red-armoured warrior. Sar'n reached out and grabbed him by the collar of his armour, pulling his face to the field master's. "Lead the charge and finish this. Glory awaits you, brother. Do not fail me!"

The veteran-sangheili grunted and brought a plasma rifle to his chest. He barked out orders to the waiting Covenant.

--

A red-armoured elite roared and motioned forward, and as his soldiers advanced, an explosion ripped through the wall behind him, tearing through the alien's body. The stone crumbled and a scorpion tank rolled through the breach. The main cannon boomed, its shell finding two jackals and an elite. The Covenant soldiers screamed in their alien tongues, attempting to retreat, much to the dismay of their commanders, and the ones that stayed to fight ended up in pieces. The marines beside Reichs cheered as four more human tanks found their way into the battle. The air filled with the chatter of 90mm guns, opening up and cutting down anything that moved up the street.

--

Before the attack had even started, Sar'n watched his offensive force as they were broken up and torn apart by human reinforcements. The human armour swept the street clean of Covenant with brutal efficiency. The wraith beside Sar'n launched a projectile high into the air, followed by his own tank, then the third. The first landed completely off its mark, the second managed to catch a scorpion tank on its forward track pod, melting the plating and treads like plastic, and the last landed in the middle of the retreating Covenant line.

Resolee had such high hopes for his military career, but all was lost now. He slowly rose to his feet, calmly resting his hands on the edge of the gunner's seat.

--

The scorpion tanks swiveled their guns return fire on the wraiths. The booms echoed through the streets, and everyone present knew that was the last sound they would hear of the fighting. The elite tank commanders didn't even have time to jump out of their vehicles when the first and third wraith tanks instantly went up in a large blue explosion, and two shells struck the second, engulfing a lone elite in a fiery blaze.

* * *

Sergeant Reichs stood, declining an offer of a smoke from a corporal, and made his way over to a now inactive scorpion tank. The canopy was propped open, and the tank commander was conferring with a marine lieutenant. Once the tanks had broken through, it was like a whole 'nother world discovered. Some believe it's hard to get lost in a city, but they obviously had never been to Beletzkov. Following the tanks through the breach was a completely different unit who had finished fighting on the other side, and was now working to secure the rest of Downtown.

The tank commander was inspecting the damaged track-pod when Reichs came over. It was hard to make repairs in the field, but since most of the area was secure, they could afford to send someone over. The most probable solution was to abandon it, though. There were hundreds of vehicles all over the city with only minor damage to them, but would take too much time and resources to be towed back to a shop and repaired.

The lieutenant heard Reichs and turned around. He asked, "Sergeant, how're the men holding up?"

There was laughter from a group playing cards, while most lay back and rested up for the coming fight.

"They're just feeling relieved, sir. Nice save, by the way."

"We heard you guys fighting a while back but couldn't find a way around the rubble. So we figured we'd go straight through the buildings."

"It's good you did. I don't think we would have lasted long, even without those wraith tanks." Reichs looked around and asked, "How was it on your side?"

The lieutenant took a seat on the tank before replying. "Less messy, I'd say. But we got a hell of a lot of snipers... us and them. I'm thankful the Covies are just awful at shooting."

"Me too, sir."

The lieutenant exhaled visibly and zipped up his jacket. "Wise guy in my company says it's gonna snow tonight."

Reichs snorted and gazed up into the permanent grey clouds.

* * *

Woodrow wasn't surprised when the light sprinkle of snow escalated into a full-blown blizzard when, of all nights, he was standing on the rooftop of an office building, waiting to look over the newcomers. However, both he and Lukas had retreated to the stairwell and were shivering underneath their coats. On the bright side, the weather might prove to be useful, masking the pelicans when they flew through the city. Until then, they were stuck in the unheated roof-access stairway waiting for reinforcements that might have decided to not even come.

He rested his head, listening to the constant plinks of a leaking pipe and the vibrations reverberating through the ground from bombs elsewhere. Beside the sound of the howling winds, he heard the faint whine of pelican engines. Nathan bent over and smacked his friend on the side of his helmet, jolting Lukas from his sleep. The spotter yawned and eased himself up, gripping the steel railing of the staircase. Woodrow set his own helmet on his head and walked onto the roof, into the snow. Lukas made his way over to the generator and activated it, illuminating the outline of the landing zone.

Two pelicans materialized through the dark skies, their lights dimmed but visibly blinking. A spotlight from one drop ship switched on, searching for the two snipers. Once in view, Nathan waved both arms indicating he was present. With the light still trained on him, the first pelican glided closer and settled down on the left side of the roof while the second one took the right. A moment later, both transports sat snuggly and Lukas once again plunged the roof into darkness.

The rear hatches whirred open, revealing marines bathed in the red blood-tray lights. They took their time, reluctantly standing and jumping down into the layer of snow and the cold; those damn pelicans were probably heated. They fanned out with their weapons at the ready, sweeping the area with their flashlights.

Various shouts of "clear!" were heard all over the roof, annoying Woodrow greatly. The marines formed a semicircle around the two snipers, waiting for him to speak. He wasn't getting any warmer, so he wanted to make it quick.

"I'm Corporal Woodrow, and this is Private Lukas. I'm told fifteen of you are the snipers?"

The one closest to him, a twenty-odd year old, who looked like he'd forgotten to shave that morning, looked around and spoke. "Yeah, the rest of us are armed escort and then reinforcements to help fight."

Woodrow raised an eyebrow. There looked to be over thirty marines altogether, some still hanging around the pelicans. "If you were reinforcements, we'd see waves of pelicans crammed full with as many men and women they could fit touching down… we _need_ waves of pelicans crammed full with marines touching down. No offense, but we're going to need a hell of a lot more help than just you guys."

The marine looked uncomfortable for a moment and said, "The brass doesn't want to send any more guys over. They're all being pulled back and stationed on Earth to prepare for the Covenant invasion."

Nathan shook his head. "_We're_ holding the Covies at Beletzkov. We succeed; we might push them back away from Earth. The brass must realize that_Beletzkov_ needs all the men it can get so we can put up a fight..." he trailed off. The realization dawned on him. "Oh, son of a bitch."

The marine just looked away from Woodrow into the night sky.

* * *

A/n: Finally got it done. Tomorrow is Christmas, so have a good one and enjoy your gifts. Happy holidays to all. 


End file.
